She nodded, clasping her hands before her as though to still their tremor. “It was after we had all gone to bed. I had just spoken with Jane about—about the ball—when weheard a scream. We all rushed out. My mother was halfway down the stairs, slumped, her slipper halfway up the flight. Kitty and Lydia went to her at once.”
Darcy listened without interruption, though his hands curled slightly at his sides.
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. “I looked up and saw—someone. A shadow at the top of the stairs. The figure turned and fled. My father gave chase, but by the time he reached the landing, whoever it was had vanished. We searched the house, but found nothing.”
“And before that?” Darcy pressed gently.
Elizabeth’s eyes darkened. “She says she saw him in her room—long hair, a beard, filthy clothing—and a knife.”
A slow, deliberate anger coiled in Darcy’s chest at that last word. “Then it is not mischief any longer,” he said. “This person—man or otherwise—has entered the realm of violence. You are all in real danger.”
Elizabeth held his gaze, unflinching. “I have thought so for some time.”
At that moment, Mr. Bennet entered, closing the door behind him with unusual firmness.
“Darcy, Bingley.” He nodded to each in turn. “I am sorry it has come to this, but my wife’s…encounter has convinced me. We must find him or her, or whatever devil plagues this house.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” Darcy replied. “Where shall we begin?”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes moved between them. “We start where the noises have been heard most often—off the kitchen, near the servants’ hall.”
Elizabeth spoke then, her tone steady but certain. “I have considered something. The sounds may not come from the open passages, but from within the walls themselves. Old servants’ corridors, perhaps—hidden spaces.”
Her father frowned. “The servants have reported nothing.”
“That does not mean they have not heard anything. Besides, they were in their beds when these things occurred,” she countered, “and the sounds could be muffled in those narrow halls.”
Darcy met her eyes. “It is worth investigating.”
Mr. Bennet departed, intent on searching upstairs in the family wing, where most of the incidents had occurred. Jane and Bingley were elsewhere.
Darcy and Elizabeth moved together through the warm bustle of the kitchen, where the cook and scullery maid watched them with wide eyes, whispering behind their aprons. At the far end of the hall, the light dimmed, and the air grew cooler. The stone flooring underfoot was worn smooth by decades of passage.
Elizabeth slowed, her gaze sweeping the corners with care. Then she stopped. “Here.”
Darcy followed her look to a place at the very back of the hall, where the stone showed fresh marks—thin arcs and scratches, as though something heavy had been dragged or shifted across it.
“Scraped,” she murmured, crouching to touch the marks with her fingertips. “Recently.”
Darcy knelt beside her, running a hand along the wainscoting. There—a faint give beneath his palm. He pressed harder, and a panel shifted.
“Help me,” he said quietly. Together, they worked the panel free, revealing a narrow, shadowed opening.
Elizabeth stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “I recall no mention of this on the current floor plan.”
“It appears to have been closed long ago,” Darcy replied, peering into the darkness. “But not well enough to keep someone out…or from getting in.”
Elizabeth’s voice was quiet but certain. “This must be where the servants and Alfred Moore died.”
The air beyond was colder still, carrying a faint musty tang. Darcy reached into his coat and produced a small tinderbox, lighting a single stub of candle from the kitchen. The weak flame threw a narrow circle of gold into thepassage beyond.
They stepped inside together, Darcy keeping Elizabeth close. The corridor was narrow enough that his shoulder brushed the wall; the plaster was rough under his palm. Behind them, Mr. Bennet remained in the servants’ hall, the panel left open to admit what little light the overcast day could offer.
The passage stretched ahead before dividing into a T. The left-hand way was completely collapsed—bricks and stone tumbled into a mound that smelled faintly of damp earth.
They turned right. The darkness pressed close around them, the candlelight trembling over the uneven walls. Somewhere ahead, a faint glow glimmered—warmer than their own light, as though from another candle or lamp.
Elizabeth’s hand found Darcy’s without a word. Her fingers were cool but steady, and he tightened his hold in silent reassurance. His own heart was pounding, though whether from the nearness of danger or from the fact of her hand in his, he could not have said.
